


With a Golden Hand by Your Fortress

by Mia_Zeklos



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mia_Zeklos/pseuds/Mia_Zeklos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all tell him that he shouldn’t worry - as 003 had put it, ‘the double-oh agents are a little like vampires – if you haven’t found a body, don’t assume that they’re dead’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Golden Hand by Your Fortress

**Author's Note:**

> Written by a prompt on tumblr. It's very late and I've got an exam tomorrow, so please excuse any typos. I'd love to know what you think of it - feedback is always welcome.

The rain had long since turned into snow by the time Q gets to leave MI6’s shiny new building and make his way home. It’s cold and the wind is harsh and sharp against his cheeks, but at least it’s distracting – that is, until he stops feeling his face and his thoughts force their way back into his head.

 

It’s been a week – a week of absolutely nothing, not as much as a whisper, from James Bond. Everyone is trying to hint, albeit gently when Q is around, that they should probably declare him dead. He’d been sent to America and, no matter how far into the middle of nowhere he’d been, there was no way he couldn’t have found a way to contact them and ask for someone to come and get him. The last Q had heard of him had been, “I’ll deal with it, Q. Going offline now.” before he’d turned off his comm as not to alert his target.

 

They’d found the body of the man in question in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert with no sign of Bond. M had sent several teams and a helicopter to look for him, but there’d been nothing and reluctantly, everyone had been called home. As Q makes his way to the underground, he thinks about how he’d practically begged M to keep going. It’s useless – once the man has made his mind, there’s no coming back – but he keeps doing it even now. He keeps reasoning that they should at least find the body, because Bond surely deserves at least that, but the man’s adamant. There’s no point, he’d told Q this morning with obvious regret and even a touch of pity, to waste agents on digging up a body. There are actual, living people to save. As subtle as it is, it’s a reminder to Q himself as well – _Do your job. There are other agents waiting for you and you can’t afford to keep doing nothing about it._

 

And he tries to do just that, he really does, but it’s not quite working. He’s not sure if all the agents who try to offer their support are making things better or worse, because they’re giving him hope, and he can’t afford that right now. It’s especially bad with the double-ohs – every time they have to visit Q branch for their equipment, they tell him that he shouldn’t worry and, as 003 had put it, ‘the double-oh agents are a little like vampires – if you haven’t found a body, don’t assume that they’re dead’.

 

It’s denial, Q knows. That’s the word for it. Refusing to accept that someone is dead is definitely denial. As far as he’s aware, the next stage is anger and he’s pretty sure he’s entering it already; he’s definitely angry – at himself for not giving up, at Bond for deciding that it’s in any way acceptable to just disappear clear off the map and not leave any sign of himself behind, at M for deciding that a week is more than enough time for a search.

 

And it’s all the more frustrating because no one _understands_. They think that Q’s just unable to accept losing an agent and that he probably feels guilty about it all, but they don’t understand. And how could they? When he’d started getting closer with that particular agent, he’d been the one to ask about as much privacy as someone like 007 could display. They were both important agents and had plenty of enemies, he’d reasoned one day two months ago, and there were a lot of people who would take advantage of any possible weakness they could find in either of them, so it wasn’t a good idea to boast around when there was no knowing who could be listening.

 

And what good does that do _now_ , Q asks himself angrily as he makes his way to his flat. He’d guarded his relationship and kept a close eye on it so that they could both be safe and now none of it matters, because he’s _gone_ and he’s never coming back. Maybe everyone is right; maybe it’s just time to accept it – he’s not going to come back.

 

He tries to repeat that in his mind as he forces the front door open – the lock’s giving him trouble because of the cold, he supposes – and then that thought dies along with everything else in his head when he realises that there’s somebody there.

 

Q’s fingers tighten around his keys – he doesn’t have any other weapon with him so that will have to do – and slowly tiptoes into the living room. The sounds coming from the inside of the flat are barely audible – just breathing, even if it’s a bit laboured, and someone shuffling around on Q’s couch. He can just about make out a man’s silhouette from behind and raises his hand, trying to remember the basic training he got when he’d first been employed by MI6 – whatever object you’ve got to attack, use any advantage you’ve got before alerting the intruder to your presence.

 

Much to his misfortune, his attacker seems to have heard him despite his best efforts. Just as Q tries to make his move, his arm is being pulled in and his body is pulled forward until he’s slammed against the back of the couch and the strong grip of the man twists his arms so that he’s forced into immobility.

 

His best bet now, as illogical as it might seem, is to shout – there are three different voice-activated distress signals scattered around the house and at least one will pick up on his request for backup. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but what comes out instead is a curse as he finally recognised the back of the head of his intruder.

 

The flat is dark save for the light of the streetlamps coming from outside and the short cropped hair looks like copper under it, but it’s still familiar and Q’s pulse slows down, then stutters for a moment and picks up again because apparently, fear has the remarkable ability to morph into anger when necessary.

 

“You bastard,” he hisses and James lets go of his hands, which is more than welcome – Q walks around the couch and kneels in front of the seated figure there. “You are _screwed_.”

 

“Language, Q.” The voice borders on bored, but there’s a faint trace of amusement in there somewhere. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me.”

 

For what is probably the first time in his life, the first thing Q’s mind resorts to is violence. He wants to punch James’s face in until he has to go to Medical for the second time in three months so that they can treat his broken nose; wants him to remember very well why this is exactly the kind of thing he just _can’t_ do.

 

Still, he smothers the impulse and takes a good look at his lover’s current physical state. He’s taken his shirt off and discarded it on the couch next to him; its stark whiteness tainted by blood. There’s a bloody gash on his left shoulder that’s been clumsily stitched together. It’s still better than the few attempts Q’s had when it came to fixing James up when he refused to get himself to a hospital and it probably comes from the hands of someone with a disturbing amount of first-hand experience with things like that.

 

“Did Moneypenny do that?” he asks evenly and James nods in the affirmative. “Why?”

 

At first, his only response is an incredulous look. “Friends don’t let friends bleed to death,” he points out and Q tries to fight the urge to strange him.

 

“Friends don’t let friends pretend they’re dead, but here we are,” he says at last and if it sounds a little bitter, then so be it.

 

“I only just came back,” the agent cuts him off and even if he tries to hide it, there’s definitely a defensive edge to his voice. “And my phone was dead. I couldn’t contact you, so I just–”

 

The rest of whatever he’s had to say is muffled as Q takes hold of him – carefully; he doesn’t want to disturb the already delicate wound – and kisses him with everything he has. He’s angry and frustrated and doesn’t want to hear any other excuse James might have had prepared, so he just pours it all into a kiss. Even after months of being in a relationship with the man, Q hasn’t found a better way to shut him up – kisses always seem to work, even if James has the habit of thinking that they fix everything they might have been arguing about beforehand.

 

“I hate you,” Q informs him as sternly as he can, but the stupidly wide grin he gets in return shows him just how seriously he’s been taken. “You have no idea how much. And if you scare me like that again, I will personally hunt you down and do unspeakable things to you.”

 

“I certainly hope so,” James shoots back, not swayed one bit by Q’s threats. If his expression is anything to go by, he seems to find it endearing. “That’s what I’m counting on.”


End file.
